


The Deer's Cry

by Razzaroo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 08:03:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20005003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: "Leaving the clan has led Mabon to strange places. It’s taken him into the Fade and back, guided by some invisible hand. It’s taken him to a mountaintop Chantry and a hidden castle and to the heart of the biggest political and religious power of Thedas. It’s led him to divinity." The sky opens. The world falls apart. The Inquisitor tries not to have a crisis of faith.





	The Deer's Cry

**Author's Note:**

> Posting so that I have a full set. The title is an alternate title for Saint Patrick's Breastplate, an Irish prayer recited for protection.

The Breach drowns out the stars. Mabon sits atop one of the roofs of Haven and watches, watches the swirling night sky, and wonders if Clan Lavellan is lost without their stars. His own, he thinks, vanished from his sight along with Fen’an but it isn’t fair that his clan should flounder through the dark as he does. 

“Herald.”

“Mabon, Solas,” he says, “My name’s Mabon.”

He peers over the edge of the roof to see Solas waiting below. The light from the Breach washes him out, makes him as pale green and ghostly as the moon. Mabon doesn’t move, though Solas expects him to, and eventually it’s Solas who gives in and climbs up beside him.

“You’re avoiding the Inquisition.”

Mabon looks out across the camp beyond Haven’s gates, easy to see from his vantage point on the roof. There’s a night watch, and the light of the Breach makes their armour green. Even from here, he can see the swords on their belts, on their breastplates.

“So are you,” he says and he looks Solas up and down, “Probably for the same reasons.”

Solas’s laugh is a bitter thing, “I’ll be honest, it isn’t something I’ve had to be cautious of before. Aware of but never cautious.”

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky. It’s all I’ve ever known.” The mark on Mabon’s hand flares and he groans, raking both hands through his hair, “I need a drink. Something strong.”

“Does it hurt? The mark, I mean.”

Mabon lifts his head to look at the Anchor; behind the green light that pours out of it, he sees the skin of his palm is red raw. 

“A little.”

“Let me.”

Solas closes his hand around Mabon’s and, almost immediately, the pain ebbs away, ice before a fire. Mabon bites back a sigh of relief but doesn’t look at Solas. Instead, he looks at the moon, hanging sickly green in the sky, and calls up a small flame in his other hand in a small attempt to summon some warmth to the evening.

“You have to show me this trick,” he says. This time, Solas’s laugh is warm.

“It’s not something I can teach, Mabon,” he says, “It is just something that is _done.”_

* * *

Mages or Templars. For Mabon, the choice is easy but humans have never made anything in his life easy. 

After Val Royeaux, he finds himself in Haven’s tavern, splitting a pint of some bitter tasting alcohol with Sera. She takes to sharing easily and laughs easier still. There’s something about her that reminds Mabon of his mother, some remnant of a long gone past that clings to her, the same way it does to Branwen; both women who have tried to live different lives but were born into an environment that sunk into their skin, their blood, their bones.

“I thought it would be bigger,” Sera says, and she sniggers as Mabon takes his turn with their stein, “I mean, I meant the stronghold but I…I could have used that so much better.” She twitches, because that is how Sera moves, “Still funny though, yeah?”

“Sure,” Mabon says, instantly liking her because she doesn’t treat him like he’s on a pedestal, “Funny. Though Haven is kind of pathetic.”

Sera takes the stein and takes a swig. When she’s done, she lowers it with a slam.

“Stopping wars should earn more sovereigns,” she says, her palm flat on the table.

“You sound like a mercenary.”

“You know what I mean! Make it more normal!” She wipes her mouth on her sleeve, “That’s the real reason you need to sit the mages and Templars down.”

“Sure,” Mabon says, “I’ll end the war, stitch the sky.” He counts off on his fingers, “Anything else you want?”

“Not right now.” Sera purses her mouth and looks at him, “You’re a mage! I saw you, all sparky sparky boom stick. The second bit should be easy for you.”

“I was never any good at sewing.”

Sera snorts, “You’re a bit daft. I think I’ll like you, lord Herald.”

“I really wish people wouldn’t call me that.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you told me your _name._ Arse.”

“Mabon. It’s Mabon.” He fingers his lapel, “I might get a badge, make it easier for them.”

Sera’s look is pointed and she pushes the stein towards him, “First things first, _Mabon_. People are stupid. They don’t read badges.”

“That’s why I need people like you. To ground them.” Mabon takes a drink, “And to ground me too. Make sure I remember there’s more to the world than nobles and Chantry mothers and people who have never known hardship.”

“I can do that,” Sera says, “I’m good at that.”

She raises one fist and bumps her knuckles against Mabon’s, a gesture he recognises as more human than elven. He accepts it anyway and she waves him off, almost dismissing him as she curls around the stein and the ale that remains.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she says, grey eyes gleaming, smile a curling mockery of a cat’s grin. She points and Mabon turns to see Cassandra waiting for him. His shoulders slump.

“Save some for me,” he says and Sera snorts.

“Whatever, Herald,” she says, “Save the world first and I’ll think about it.”

* * *

There’s a whole sky’s worth of weight sitting on Mabon’s shoulders. He carries it, because the Chantry gives him no choice, because a green mark on his hand makes him _the Herald of Andraste,_ because no one else can close the Breach no matter how they try. He carries it and he runs the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast, looking for an escape from it all, looking for a way home.

He finds an escape with Dorian.

No one dares bring up the southern Chantry when Dorian is nearby, with his silver tongue as quick as a whip as just as biting; no one mentions the effects of the Breach, not when Dorian stands witness to its effects on time, when Dorian provides shelter behind his own broad shoulders.

“Are you running?” Dorian asks, over candlelight and something cold that makes Mabon gag, “From the Chantry, I mean.”

“Not running,” Mabon says, moody, the mark on his palm itching, “I just want people to stop talking to me.” He rubs his good hand against his face, “I don’t _care_ about their Chantry or their Maker or their prophet.” He breathes in and it tastes of wood smoke.

“No doubt, the Tevinter mage is a good block against the good little Southern Andrastians.”

Mabon slumps, “You must think I’m the worst person in the world.”

“On the contrary,” Dorian says cheerfully, “I think you’re being very clever. Don’t doubt, Herald, that I’m using you in a similar way; who will touch the dreaded magister when their beloved saviour is so clearly showing his trust?”

“I’m no saviour, Dorian.”

“No.” Dorian moves closer, “Please, Mabon, let me help you.”

Mabon looks at him and wants to choke. He wants to burrow beneath the snow, beneath the earth, and wait there until spring, until roots curl around his bones and flowers bloom beneath his ribs. He wishes he’d never come; he wishes he’d died at the Conclave. He wishes he could find where unicorns go, to hide under those dandelion soft manes and become as much myth as they are.

“Just keep me grounded,” he says, though he wants Dorian to drown his dreams, to strangle the blank spots in his memory, destroy whatever it was Mabon had come to find. He blinks, “Keep me from becoming what they want me to become.” 

“There’s a library here?” Dorian asks, and Mabon nods, gestures to the Chantry. Dorian smiles, “Good. It’s easy not to be yourself when you’re sunk into some dusty mystery. Come with me.” His thumb brushes against Mabon’s, pulls back when Mabon twitches, “Come with me.”

* * *

Haven caves in around the magister’s ( _darkspawn,_ Mabon’s mind reminds him, and his fear leaps to strangle him) feet and Mabon manages to escape those clawed hands, still feeling the legacy of centuries ago clasped around his wrist, running as the avalanche plunges towards him. He spots a hole in the snow, an escape, and he leaps; he lands with a gasp, pain rattling his bones. He lies curled against the icy ground for a moment, waiting for his breath to find him again.

Eventually, he stands on shaking legs; his ankles protest, pain shooting up from his feet to his knees, but Mabon pushes on. He cannot stay here in the cold, not when the mark in his hand is burning so; he remembers Solas and how the other elf had eased the pain with a touch; he needs to know Solas’s secret. If he is to be stuck with this mark forever, he wants to know how to control the flares. 

Step by step, Mabon makes it out of the tunnel. 

The ground opens up to the icy conditions of the Frostback Mountains. Mabon clutches his coat tighter to him and wishes he’d asked for something heavier, more Fereldan, lined with more fur. The blizzard is a wicked, taunting thing. Somewhere, in the distance, he could hear a wolf howling.

‘ _Where the wolves are,’_ he thinks, numb all over, ‘ _there’s life. Follow the wolves.’_

It was an old trick his clan had followed: if a place had good, clear wolf prints, there was life there. There was game to hunt and water to drink and shelter to be found, away from humans and their prying eyes. The wind steals the breath from his throat, raw and sharp as knives. He pulls the last of his magic to build a shield around himself, a last ditch effort to keep the tips of his ears as he drags himself through the empty mountains.

His knees give out when he reaches a mountain pass, shaking under the weight of himself. The narrow passage makes the wind whistle overhead but it’s shelter, no matter how small. He’s reminded of his father’s halla, how they separated themselves from the herd when they were ready to die.

“There! It’s him!”

“ _Ah,’_ Mabon thinks as he’s picked up out of the snow, ‘ _Thwarted again, Falon’din.’_

* * *

The light that Solas conjures is heatless and Mabon half wants to ask why he even bothers, when there is the option for flame, so much more valuable in this frigid place. It’s silver and bright, and Solas allows him to pass his hand through it, flame licking his fingers, bleaching the light that bleeds from the mark. 

“Their respect is hard won, lethallin,” Solas says, “Their trust more so. You should be proud.”

“They don’t respect _me_ ,” Mabon says, and he folds his arms against the cold, “They still think I’m some Herald. Dropping a mountain on someone isn’t a divine act.”

Solas’s smile is enigmatic, “You’d be surprised.” He turns away and the fire paints shadows on his face, “The orb Corypheus has. It is elvhen.” His eyes are bright, “It is _ours._ You need to be prepared for how they will react when they find out that truth.”

“They’ll always find a way to blame elves. This just gives them the excuse they’re looking for.”

“Perhaps. But for now there is an enemy that can be seen. The Inquisition has a goal; it’s a change for the better, though little can be achieved with this as its base.”

“Oh, did you learn that from the Fade?”

“No, though it is where I found the solution. You just need to lead us there.”

 _How_ , Mabon wants to ask, _do you expect me to do that; how can you ask this of me, after all that I’ve already done?_ His vallaslin seemed to weigh on him and lightly traced the lines up the bridge of his nose, across his brow, Mythal’s vines stretched across his face, feeling them twining down his shoulders and upper arms. Mythal, the leader, the protector; how could he call himself worthy of her if he refused?

Looking into the long darkness ahead, Mabon takes a breath and asks, “What do you need me to do?”

* * *

In Haven, Chantry masses had been easy to avoid. He made a habit of keeping away from the hulking chantry in the village as much as possible, of spouting excuses when he was asked: _I don’t know your customs_ ; _the Breach won’t close itself_ ; _I’ll burn if I step in a Chantry, you know._

There’d always been a grain of truth in all of them but the larger truth, a real stone of it, had been that Mabon could not and never would worship the same as the rest of the Inquisition did; it had always been easier to just avoid it as best he could.

The move to Skyhold had meant a move of masses; instead of an enormous Chantry, dedicated to the cause, the Andrastian Mothers led mass in the great hall, the legions of faithful called together in service to their Maker. He tries to avoid it all still but endures what he can, because now they truly revere him too.

He treasures the time he takes with Dorian, practically crawling the walls of the castle while Dorian spots him, feeling out the magic sunk into the stones. Together, they trawl through the dusty books in the library, breathing in the scent of knowledge centuries old and lost. 

“It’s remarkable how many of these old southern practices are like the Tevinter Chantry,” Dorian says, “See these? We still follow these devotions, though Leliana tells me the south abandoned them long ago.”

“Hm?” Mabon says, looks up from the old book of romances he’s found. He recognises one from his mother’s stories, lovers turned into a briar and rose bush, entwined after death, “I don’t know much about what the Chantry does.”

“Those services they’ve had you sit through and you haven’t paid attention to one?”

“If I’m meant to be the Herald of Andraste, privy to the whispers of the divine, why should I have to pay attention to services?”

He closes the book he’d been reading in favour of peering at Dorian’s, old thing with grey pages, writing spidery and thin. He frowns, squints, because the text is nearly impossible; he says so, and Dorian only smiles.

“Because you don’t have the training for it,” he says, “Luckily for the Inquisition, palaeography is a key part of learning in Minrathous.”

“I’ll assume humility isn’t. It’s much more practical.”

“There’s no need for practicality in magical study.”

“The Dalish have no choice but to be practical.”

Colour rises on Dorian’s cheeks, momentary embarrassment at forgetting Mabon’s roots, the demands of life on the run. It is, Mabon thinks, not really Dorian’s fault that he forgets not everyone’s life is like his; it’s a trap anyone could stumble into. Still, he wants to trust Dorian enough to do better.

“It’s all right,” Mabon says, wobbling as he stood, dizzy on sleeplessness. He thinks of Mother Giselle, her patience when her requests for him to join her in mass are faced with startled deer stares, how she reminds him of Keeper Deshanna, “You can’t learn if you don’t make mistakes.”

* * *

_Meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall._

**_I don’t use that title anymore._ **

What, Mabon wants to ask, happens to a title that’s no longer used. He thinks of his old world, his old role, how he’d worn _First_ like a crown. Now it lies abandoned, somewhere in the snow of the Frostbacks, rolling on the bottom of the Waking Sea, tucked into a wooden box in his parents’ aravel alongside his baby blanket. There’s so much of who he used to be that he wishes he could pick up again.

Hawke has the look of someone well acquainted with the feeling.

He does not look like a man who could bring down an Arishok, a mage who defeated an army of Templars and lived to tell the tale. He looks worn down, his coat shabby at the edges, though the gold embroidery on his back still gleams; it’s the coat of a mercenary, an apostate, not a Champion. Still, there’s something to be said about how he straightens his back, carries himself like a hero. He keeps a thin braid tucked behind one ear, woven through with red silk, red ribbon of hope, of a promise. Mabon’s familiar enough with human stories to recognise a lover’s token.

“There’s not much I could tell you,” Hawke says, and he leans on the parapet, “Dropping a mountain on him was better than some lightning and stab wounds; if you haven’t finished him off, nothing can.”

“Everything can be killed,” Mabon says, thinks of Fen’an facing down hurlocks with only his daggers, uttering those same words, “Everything.”

Hawke’s smile is a tight thing, “Some things just need to be killed twice, apparently.” Mabon presses one hand against his rib, feeling the old shadow of pain there. Hawke ignores the movement, instead turning to Varric, “Can we have a minute?”

Varric looks reluctant, as if afraid that Hawke will dissolve back into mist and legend if Varric lets him out of his sight. But Mabon knows that Varric can’t refuse Hawke anything and isn’t surprised when he retreats, takes a position on the steps to make sure no one disturbs them. The realisation of being alone with the Champion of Kirkwall settles like a shroud.

“You left Anders behind,” Mabon says, “Why?”

“I’d have brought him,” Hawke says, “But I’ve seen what Corypheus can do to him. I _won’t_ put him through that again.”

There’s such fierceness there, a love that Mabon is jealous of. Hawke runs a hand through his hair, braid sliding between his fingers, touch lingering on the slightly frayed end of the ribbon. Mabon wants to give him the title _Inquisitor,_ to shed it from his own shoulders and give it to someone who is clearly made of sturdier stuff than himself. 

“Don’t look like that,” Hawke says, catching his expression, “Like you said, everything can be killed. If an Archdemon can go, so can immortal magisters who spawned the Blight in the first place.”

Mabon looks at the scar in the sky, “So can Inquisitors.”

“Ah, well, that’s different,” Hawke says. He rubs at his back, site of an old scar, “You’re one of the heroes. Heroes can’t die until the end of the story.”

* * *

Leaving the clan has led Mabon to strange places. It’s taken him into the Fade and back, guided by some invisible hand. It’s taken him to a mountaintop Chantry and a hidden castle and to the heart of the biggest political and religious power of Thedas. It’s led him to divinity.

The strangest place may well be wrapped around a Tevinter mage, arms locked over a broad chest, chin resting on one of those solid shoulders. Dorian’s hand is closed around his wrist, like an anchor, thumb pressed against his pulse point. 

He doesn’t know how to fill all the gaps in Dorian’s heart. 

“I meant what I said before, in the library,” he says, “That I think you’re brave.”

“You’re too kind, Inquisitor.”

“Mabon.” 

“Of course. Very sorry.”

Dorian doesn’t let go of him; if anything, he holds on tighter, skin pulling over his knuckles. Mabon would reshape the world for him if he asked, rebuild to anything he wanted, anything at all: turn the Frostbacks into a library of magic, mould the sky into a palace with all the sweet wine he could dream of. 

* * *

The invitation from Orlais comes before any developments from the Wardens. Mabon sits with the letter open before him, already answered by Josephine. Dorian stands at his right hand, Sera at his right; he is vaguely aware of Blackwall and Hawke before him. 

“What do I do now?” he says, into the night more than to the people around him. 

“Stuff ‘em” Sera said.

“Bear it,” Dorian said, at the same time. Mabon turned to look at Blackwall, who only laughed.

“It’s not my area of expertise,” he said, “I’m here to watch your back.”

“Then you’ll be my most important person there,” Mabon says. He looks back down at the invitation, “Are we sure we can’t confront the Grey Wardens first?”

Blackwall only coughed and turned away, allowing Hawke to speak in his place, “Believe it or not, the Orlesians are a safer bet at the moment; we just don’t know enough about what’s happening with the Wardens yet.”

It’s little comfort to Mabon. He knows what he is to the Orlesians: a pretender, an elf standing in a spot he doesn’t belong in. They’ll never seem him as an equal, no matter what he does, because his ears are longer than theirs. He wishes he didn’t have to care about them, that he could turn his back as their vile empress is finally one-upped in her country’s ridiculous game of thrones; he wishes that he wasn’t pushed into defending a country that doesn’t even see him as a person.

“I’d rather be blind with the Wardens than walk into a room of Orlesians with my eyes wide open,” he says and Hawke chuckles.

“As someone who has done both, I agree. But the Inquisition can’t afford risks like that.”

“If I die in Orlais, don’t let them sell me as a holy relic.”

That night, he stays awake in his quarters, watching the stars. He counts his ribs, his fingerbones, every small part of him that could be picked out by some collector interested in oddities. He weighs up his worth and frowns, because his worldly wealth is held in the palm of his left hand. He can’t imagine what anyone could do with the rest of him. 

Eventually, he abandons the lofty goal of sleeping and creeps down the steps of the tower, travelling cloak draped over his shoulders. As he crosses the main hall, he almost follows his daylight habit of turning left, wanting to see if Dorian’s having one of his late night library sessions; almost too late, he remembers that Solas sleeps in the rotunda, his protections cast around him like tripwires. Mabon doesn’t dare risk it. Instead, he slips out through the main door and into the night air, the guards dipping their heads as he passes.

The grass is cold under his bare feet, bordering on frosty, and the courtyard is silvery with mist. Above him, only a few of Skyhold’s windows are lit; Cullen’s office and one of the rookery’s high windows still glow amber, telling him which of his advisers were joining him in the sleep deprived society. He makes his way down the steps to the lower courtyard, following the light still brightening the stable.

“Going somewhere?” Blackwall asks, eyeing the cloak, “Still trying to get out of going to the Empress’s party?”

Mabon shrugs, “I’ll settle for spoiling it.”

“Good luck. Orlesians will party through anything.” Blackwall gestures for Mabon to sit across from him, “Is that what’s kept you up so late?”

“That.” Mabon holds up his left hand, “This.” He cocks his head, “Do all Grey Wardens have dreams about darkspawn?”

“And where did you hear that?”

“A friend told me.”

There’s a pause before Blackwall says, “Yes, all Wardens dream about darkspawn.”

“I don’t know what’s worse.”

Blackwall smirks, “Orlesians just smell better.”

* * *

When Celene requests a private audience, the two of them alone, Mabon wants to say no, just to see what she would do. There is, he thinks, little she could do; from his point of view, she owes him her life, her crown, her whole damned country. Catching Josephine’s eye, he decides against it and lets Celene lead him to a small chamber off of the main ballroom. The pair of them are a sharp contrast. She is still immaculate, while Mabon is splattered with blood and demon ichor, ruining the only formal clothes he’s over owned. 

“I didn’t thank you as I should have,” she says, “You have done a great thing for Orlais.”

Immediately, Mabon senses that this is just the next step of her game. Gratitude and compliments are just tools at her disposal. He’s not willing to let her blindside him, to give her the chance to slip a knife between his ribs.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he says, “And there’s more to the world than just Orlais.”

Her smile is thin and dainty but behind that porcelain, there’s nothing but teeth. Mabon offers nothing back. He’s given her all that he intends to. Now all he wants is to retreat from the politics of it all and to find some clothes that aren’t crusted in blood. 

“The Inquisition will be in touch,” he says, “For now, I’ll take the chance to bow out gracefully.”

He tries not to look like he’s fleeing as he retreats. He shrugs off his jacket and allows a servant to take it, to spirit it away into the depths of the palace for scrubbing. It leaves him in just his shirt sleeves, though he doesn’t feel underdressed even when compared to the most extravagantly dressed Orlesian noble. They watch him from under their gleaming masks and he watches them from under his vallaslin and their stares are heavy with the weight of different suspicions. 

“Absolutely indecent,” Dorian says, finding Mabon on the balcony. He wraps his arms around Mabon’s waist and sways slightly, “We should do parties more often.”

“No more parties,” Mabon says, “They don’t suit me.”

“Only because you had to work.” Dorian steps back and offers his hand in one graceful, well-practiced movement, “Dance with me, at least. Just once.”

Mabon hesitates for a moment before he takes Dorian’s hand and lets himself be pulled in close again. He buries his face in Dorian’s shoulder and wants to forget himself, to forget the Inquisitor, to just be Mabon and not have the weight of nations on his back. 

* * *

“Didn’t take you for a believer, Lucky.”

“I have a goddess written across my face,” Mabon says, and his fingers curl around the dragon token he’s somehow managed to hold on to, small symbol of Mythal, “Just because I don’t believe what the shemlen do, doesn’t mean I don’t believe at all.”

Varric raises an eyebrow, “You know, sometimes it’s too easy to forget that you’re Dalish.” He gestures, “Gets lost in the whole Inquisitor thing.”

“Drowned out, you mean.”

Varric makes a non-committal sound, “That’s the Chantry for you.”

Adamant Fortress is in view in the low evening light. The pair of them are scouting ahead of the Inquisition’s army, stalking the Wardens, waiting for night to come. The Wardens, for their part, are too preoccupied and turn their backs on the world. Mabon cocks his head and considers it; for all the Wardens’ legend, for all that’s he’s known and dreamed of them, it doesn’t live up to expectations.

“You think it makes a difference then?” Varric’s question tugs Mabon back down to earth, “I guess one more god doesn’t hurt.”

“The gods will be there, Varric, whether I invoke them or not.” Mabon feels the mark on his hand burn, and he clenches his fist at his side, hissing at the pain, “I just need to keep them on my side.”

* * *

Every time they take a step in the Fade, it ripples like water. Mabon can barely move without treading on Sera, who walks in his every footprint, keeping herself firmly between him and Blackwall. She crowds him on one side while the questions and expectations of the others crowd him on the opposite: is this what it was like before; how did you get out last time; what do you _remember?_ There’s a sharp pain in his head, as if something is burrowing in, and his ears ring. 

“I don’t remember anything!” he snaps eventually, and Sera steps back, as if afraid he’s about to burst into flames, “And I’ve said that since the beginning!”

His temper’s wearing, so he takes a step away, never far enough that he’d be alone. He waves off Dorian’s concern and searches the space overhead, looking for a sky that will never come. There’s no stars in the Fade. The pain in his head builds and he’s lost, lost, _lost_ all in a mess of his own making. 

“Inquisitor?” 

Mabon flinches and Hawke pulls his hand back. The pain in Mabon’s head builds to a peak before it finds what it’s looking for; it bursts, blinding, before finally started to recede. There’s a blank spot left behind in his memory. 

“Hawke,” he says, and he presses his hand against his forehead; already, there’s a new ache starting to build, “Why am I here? I knew a moment ago but…” he snaps his fingers, “Gone.”

“Wardens,” Hawke says, and Mabon tries to ignore Sera’s panicked look, “Demons. _You_ opened the rift to the Fade.”

The blank space doesn’t fill in, but Mabon believes it; Hawke has no reason to lie. They’re stuck here together, no matter how they got here, and they’ll get out together. He takes a breath and it smells of rain because of _course_ it does; whether he’s here physically or not, the Fade is the Fade and it shapes itself to whatever it’s expected to be. 

“Then we need to go,” he says, and he lifts his head, gathers his magic in his hands. It’s a simple spell, one of the first he’d ever learnt, designed to point him to whatever it is he wants to find. The point swivels before deciding on a firm direction, unchanging despite the nature of the Fade, “that way.”

He sets off down the path, Hawke at his heels, the others close behind. He keeps his head down, his ears alert, and puts his feet down firmly, as if his movement alone could solidify the Fade. He doesn’t tell the others what he’s looking for; let them draw their own conclusions. The Inquisitor inquisits. It’s part of the job.

 _What do you want?_ The Fade asks, gentle-voiced, though there’s a dark thread underneath it all, a tell-tale warning of demons. 

_To remember_ Mabon thinks and he prays that his heart, his soul and his mind will be good to him.

 **_Ah_ ** says the demon, and Mabon has to push through another flare of pain, **_You can try, Inquisitor. You can try._ **

* * *

The Nightmare has many faces, enough that Mabon feels sick trying to see them all and recognise them for what they are. It has no form of its own. Mostly, he sees a hurlock, huge and hulking, its teeth dripping with blood. The small piece of itself that it had sent out to do battle lies still, a genlock’s flesh already melting around the pile of its bones. The hurlock steps forward and Mabon moves to meet it, those needle-sharp teeth drawing him in. Beyond the monster, he sees his mother, his father, Fen’an, all of his clan shattered on darkspawn swords. He knows it’s an illusion.

He can’t stand it.

Before he can jam the end of his staff into the creature’s mouth, there’s a strong hand on his elbow, pulling him back. Hawke pushes him towards the open rift behind the demon before conjuring a wall of flame between them, separating Hawke from the others. It blazes bright and high, more than it ever could in the physical world.

“Go!” he shouts, and the demon suddenly sounds less like a howling darkspawn and more like the shriek of a giant spider, “Save the world for me!”

Mabon wants to go back and he reaches out, but Stroud grips his wrist.

“Don’t,” he says, and he’s _mournful,_ “In death, sacrifice.”

There’s an argument on the tip of Mabon’s tongue, that there doesn’t need to be a sacrifice, that it’s his duty as Inquisitor to make sure everyone comes back safely after he’d led them here. Sera’s already scrambling out of the rift, abandoning some of her best arrows in her haste. Mabon follows her, reluctant, Stroud’s hand between his shoulder blades. The sound of Hawke’s staff cracking buries itself in Mabon’s spine, burrowing between vertebrae; it will come back to haunt him, the same way old injuries ache before the weather changes.

He drops back into the real world with Stroud on his heels. He turns to face the rift again in time to see the shape of the Nightmare rear back before he raises his hand to seal it. The tear in the world closes, ragged edges drawn tight, and a cheer goes up behind him when the last shred of green light disappears. His hand burns and he cradles it close to his chest. Across the courtyard, he spots Varric, who searches through the smoke for someone who isn’t there. The pinch of Varric’s brow, the worried twist of his mouth, the way he looks at where the rift used to be all speak volumes. 

_Where’s Hawke?_

* * *

The aftermath of Adamant Fortress brings with it a familiar feeling. Mabon finds himself circling the old question of why him and not Fen’an-Hawke-The Divine. Why is he unscathed, when they are not? Why does he still stand tall, still walk in the light, have a future that stretches apparently unending? He stays awake at night to pour himself into work and research, tries to get himself one more step ahead of Corypheus because he cannot and will not let anyone else take this fall for him. When he sleeps, it’s in Dorian’s arms. 

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, Inquisitor,” Solas says one night. They walk the battlements under a full moon, swollen and still stained green, “The Champion of Kirkwall made his decision. So did the Divine.”

“And they wouldn’t have had to, if I’d made better ones.” Mabon rubs his eyes, exhausted, “I can’t stop thinking about what I could have done differently.”

Solas watches the far-off stars, “If you’d done things differently, you may not be standing here. If you’d done things differently at the Conclave, the Breach could have swallowed the sky by now. If you’d done things differently, there could be an army of demons marching across Thedas.” He looks back at Mabon, starlight caught in those grey eyes, and suddenly seems very old, “Give it time, lethallin. See if you’d still change your choices in a month, a year, from now.”

“And if I do?”

“Then you think about setting the world to rights again. But for now you let the dust settle. You get some sleep.” Solas folds his arms over his chest, as if putting up a wall around himself, “You wait to see what the world looks like when you wake up.”

* * *

He doesn’t know what to think of Morrigan. They size each other up and find something common in the other, because the scent of the wild is hard to shake no matter how many fine sheets one sleeps in and because elvhen magic isn’t something widely discussed in the circles they’ve both found themselves in.

“It’s an eluvian,” Mabon says, and Morrigan looks almost irritated that he’d beaten her to it. He reaches to touch the glass, beaming with blue light, and it shifts beneath his fingers, “I’ve only heard about them in stories.”

“They’re rare now,” Morrigan says, “Many of them are broken, or long forgotten.”

She steps through the mirror and Mabon follows, caution be damned. For a moment, he hears and sees nothing and the dark presses in; he takes a breath and feels as if his mouth and nose are filled with water before he comes out on the other side, tasting the damp air on his tongue. He steps into a world that is all blacks and greys, shrouded in fog; in the distance, he can see one or two glints of gold and he sidesteps a mirror surrounded by golden branches, the feel of its magic a dark hum in the pit of his belly. Trees materialise as he joins Morrigan, their branches smooth and sculpted, bent so the trees all resembled cups, lined neatly in a row.

“Crossroads,” he says, and catches Morrigan’s arched eyebrow, “The Dalish have stories about this place. A doorway to everywhere in the world, all in one place.”

“I thought the name had been lost,” Morrigan says, “I could find no trace of one, at any rate.”

“It was lost. The name, this whole place.” Mabon touches the edge of one of the dark eluvians, “How did you find it?”

“Through a _lot_ of effort.”

“And why are you showing me this?”

“Your scouts have traced Corypheus to the Arbor Wilds, where I believe one can find an intact and functioning eluvian. This is not the Fade,” Morrigan says, “but it’s very close. Given time, given resources, given motivation, one could use this place to open the Fade.”

Mabon’s grip on the edge of the mirror tightens and his knuckles whiten. If Solas was right, Corypheus had already stolen a little piece of the People, an ancient conduit for magic that should rightfully be theirs; if Morrigan was right, he was looking to do it again, with no care for what it really was. 

“I could show this to the Keeper,” he says, because it’s easier than letting Morrigan see that he’s angry, easier than having to explain that to her. 

“Your priorities are certainly in order,” Morrigan says, “Though remember, Inquisitor, if Corypheus succeeds, you won’t be showing your Keeper anything.”

Mabon looks at her, bordering on a glare, “Have some faith. Protecting this, preserving this, is what I was trained for. It’s not something I’ll just start because it’s beneficial for me.”

He doubts that Morrigan misses the jab but she doesn’t rise to it, enduring the poke and storing it away in what he’s sure is a lifelong stock of grievances. She follows him as he wanders among the mirrors. Every time her voice fades, lost in the mist, Mabon thinks that she’s left him behind, abandoned him in an endless hall of mirrors. 

He can’t say that he doesn’t want her to.

* * *

Sera comes to find him the night before they leave for the Arbor Wilds. She parks herself firmly on his bed, the side usually reserved for Dorian, and tips out what appears to be an entire kitchen’s worth of slightly misshapen baked goods onto his sheets. She’ll never be a baker, it’s true, but she tries and Mabon appreciates her efforts.

“Shoes,” she says, leaning back on his pillows.

“Lethallan,” Mabon says and Sera snorts, “What’s this honour?”

“No honour, your Inquisitorialness.” She rubs her face with both hands, “You haven’t come to talk to me in ages.”

“After what happened in the Fade, I thought you might need a break. From this,” Mabon gestures to the Anchor, “and from me.”

Sera frowns, “Not you, Shoes. Never you. Just the Fade and magic and demons.” She hides her face in the crook of her elbow, as if embarrassed, and her words become muffled, “I didn’t like seeing you like that. All forgetful, not knowing where you were.”

“Ah, well, that doesn’t usually happen. But I’m sorry; if I’d known we were going to fall into the Fade, I would have let you sit it out.” He picks up one of her biscuits and broke it in two, “Raisins again?”

“I tried to get chocolate but the cook guards it better than a dragon. Need someone to distract her so I can sneak in and get to the _good_ stuff.”

It’s a subtle hint. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mabon says, “After we deal with this round of Corypheus.” He nibbles along the edge of the biscuit, “You know, if you _asked,_ I could just get the chocolate for you.”

“True,” Sera says before she blows a short raspberry, “But where’s the fun in that?”

* * *

The temple of Mythal glitters, ancient and rich with power in a way Mabon’s never felt in any of the Chantries he’s been paraded through. He regrets that he couldn’t linger, couldn’t appreciate the murals or the shrines, still gleaming even though the ancient elves are long gone, only the echoes of them remaining in Abelas’s footsteps. Abelas’s words ( **_shemlen_ ** _, it stings like a burn)_ rattle between his ears but it’s all drowned out by the Well of Sorrows.

The water is as still as glass. Mabon stands at the edge of the pool, almost afraid to touch it. He feels it hooked beneath his breastbone and its yawning hunger. It’s sat still and quiet for so long that it longs for even the smallest piece of something new. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Morrigan, watching his hesitation with starving eyes.

‘ _My heritage,’_ he thinks. His skin seems to itch where Mythal’s marks are etched into it, ‘ _My_ **_faith._ ** _’_

If Mythal has led him anywhere, he has to believe it’s here. 

He takes a breath and steps forward.

* * *

“Lucky, I don’t think rum is the drink for you.”

The rotunda is cold. Through the rum clouding his head, Mabon can still hear the voices from the Well, louder and more insistent since the meeting in the Fade. He and Solas are both on the floor, shoulder to shoulder. This is how he knows Solas has indulged too much; they’d never be this close sober.

“I’m fine, Varric,” he says, “I’ve had worse.”

“I didn’t know things could get worse than Kirkwall rum.” Varric looks at Solas, “Chuckles?”

“We’ll survive,” Solas says. He takes the bottle from Mabon and holds it out to Varric, “Though take this.”

There’s a smirk on Varric’s face as he leaves the rotunda, rum in hand. Mabon watches him go before he sighs and turns his attention to Solas, drawing his legs up to his chest and resting his cheek on his knees.

“You must think I’m a fool,” he says and he catches the tail end of Solas’s smile.

“I..no. I think you’re young, and _green.”_ Solas manages a laugh when Mabon looks at the Anchor, “In more ways than one.” His face turns serious, “You didn’t have to drink from the Well, Inquisitor.”

Mabon blinks, “You think I should have let Morrigan? She’d just treat it as a curiosity. It’s elven history.” He rocks back slightly, the back of his head bumping the wall, “I was going to be a Keeper and it’s a Keeper’s job to remember.”

“For what purpose? To establish a new Arlathan?”

“What? No.” Mabon rubs at his forehead, “Some might but not my clan. We preserve our history, we learn from it so that we can move forward. Not that a homeland wouldn’t be welcome but that’s just…” he shrugs, “not what we’re working with right now.”

Solas goes quiet and Mabon closes his eyes, listening to the voices from the Well, trying to pick out the individual words. His head is slowly starting to clear of rum which makes it easier to single out what’s being said, though the words still run together and blur despite now being louder than whispers.

“What were you expecting Mythal to be?” Solas asks, “When you drank. What did you expect?”

“Well,” Mabon says, and he tries not to sound bitter, “If I wanted a shemlen woman with a bad crown, I’d become Andrastian.” He opens his eyes again and fixes his focus on the painting on the wall opposite, sentinels standing straight, “But who I met the Fade? That wasn’t Mythal.”

“Explain?”

“I only saw vengeance in the Fade. There’s more to Mythal than that; you can’t represent a goddess and only wear one of her faces.”

“Your faith, at least, is admirable.”

“I have to try and keep it,” Mabon says, “What else do I have that’s mine?”

Solas’s face is tight, “As you say, lethallin.” He stands, stretches, “Good night Inquisitor.”

* * *

Once again, Mabon finds himself beneath a cold sky, though now he’s under the rising sun instead of the moon and the sky is unbroken. He sits on the parapet and presses his left hand against the cold stone to ease the sting of the Anchor, still bright and burning after what he’d done to Corypheus. Below, he can hear the rest of the Inquisition, the sound of their voices, a faint suggestion of music.

“We’ve come full circle, Lady,” he says, twisting his dragon token on its leather string, “I’d like to think you’ve put some thought into this.”

The door opening catches his attention and he turns to see Dorian, looking more dishevelled than Mabon’s ever seen him.

“Hiding from your own party?” he says, “You are very dull, amatus.”

“I did say no more parties.” 

“A man of his word,” Dorian says, “I like that.”

Mabon turns his face away when Dorian leans in to kiss him, choosing instead to trace the line of Dorian’s jaw, thumb stroking slow lines against his cheekbone.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, turning to brush a kiss against Mabon’s palm. Mabon makes a small sound at the back of his throat.

“Did I ever tell you I didn’t think I’d make it out of the Conclave?” he says, fidgeting with Dorian’s collar, “Or Haven.”

“Ah,” Dorian says and Mabon lets him steal the kiss back, “But here you are.”

Here he is. Mabon doesn’t know where Fen’an is; he doesn’t know how to go back to his clan, now practically settled in Wycome. He doesn’t know where to go from here, carrying ancient magic in the back of his head, cast over his heart and soul. He’s unsure about where he stands with his goddess; he only knows that she’ll one day call on him and he’ll be powerless to resist.

But now…

“Here I am,” he says, letting Dorian pull him closer. He’ll put his faith here for now, close and warm, two heart beating benedictions. 

The pair of them end up curled in bed together, curtains drawn around the bed to keep the sunlight out. They sleep with their fingers linked, warm and solid, and Mabon’s dreams are filled with ancient voices.


End file.
